January 11th, 2008

7:41 A.M.



Winter is blowing round out there. Icing the air. Chilling bones. But it's warm down here. At the little desk in the basement. A little light. Some thought. The keyboard. And I feel at home. More at home now than ever before. Comfortable in my skin. Dedicated to family and writing. Aware of the fact that I need to continue to educate myself and grow if I want to be the man I hope to be.



San Francisco literary agency received Pilgrim's Bay. Looked it over. Responded with a postcard. Once again, my writing—my aim—is not quite right at this time and is not a good fit.



Several others have responded the same way. Even my attempts at true whoring—writing greeting card verse—was shot down. Unfortunately, we are unable to use anything at this time. Please submit in the future. Ah yes, just enough to keep the writer reaching. Coming back for more.



And so, here I am. At it again. Plugging away. Getting another day older. But finding comfort in the simple act of putting words together. To make and find sense. To show the good. Because that is all we can keep doing. Wake up. Make the coffee. Settle down into this wooden chair and let her rip. Retrieve inspiration from the everyday with the hope that others will see.



Anything is possible.



Hard work and thought pay off.



Love exists. Every moment. In the simplest things.



The yellow dog. How she comes to me. Raggedy old toy in her mouth. Wanting nothing but for me to throw it again and again and again. And so, we play. Until she's exhausted. Mouth wide. Tongue hanging. Big tail pounding the ground.



Standing at the big window. Waiting for something. Anything to relieve the routine of the day. When an enormous flock of birds swoops down. Rushes toward the ground. A big black poke-a-dot wave. And the sight of it—dark wings and measured motion against the white January sky—strikes deep, touches the hollow, so that you feel a secret. Burning inside. Something that only you can carry.



And pacing the floor. While she showers. Holding the ring as if it is the most delicate thing. An egg—warm and ready to hatch—a small shell that holds the potential and significance of everything. And you recognize that all moments have led to this.

And you are just a boy.

Wanting to love and grow old.

With just this.

One girl.

This one.

And the shower stops.

So you light candles.

Pour wine.

Pace the living room, the kitchen, the hallway, one more time.

Then sit and wait and listen.

For the open door.

Footsteps.

The feeling that only she can bring to a room.

And you are amazed and humbled when you finally muster the courage to ask and she says,

"Yes, of course, I'll marry you!"



~ K.J.



(copyright © 2008 by k.j. stevens)

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